


all her broken wishing bones

by Solanaceae



Category: Midsummer Night's Dream - Shakespeare
Genre: ...AU but like set after the events of what would've been canon. if that makes sense., Alternate Universe - Pirate, F/F, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 06:29:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16341572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solanaceae/pseuds/Solanaceae
Summary: The end, when it comes, is swift and merciless.





	all her broken wishing bones

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lexigent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexigent/gifts).



The end, when it comes, is swift and merciless.

“You understand—this was never love.” Demetrius’ voice is harsh. He stands with his back to Helena, hands on the railing, eyes fixed on the distant horizon. Helena’s stomach turns for reasons completely unrelated to the way the ship sways almost imperceptibly on the waves.

“What was it, then?” she asks, amazed at how steady her voice remains.

“An enchantment. Some wildness set on me by the sea.”

“Then—” Now her voice fractures. She swallows, says, “Then what shall I do?”

“We will dock in Malta, and you are free to go where you wish.”

She should be angry, or weeping perhaps, but there is only a deep, echoing cold in her, like a pit yawning in the depths of the ocean, reaching ever deeper to the heart of the earth. Wordless, she nods, and turns away.

***

Whatever strange dealings had turned heart of the pirate captain Demetrius towards  _ her _ , whatever bizarre twist of fate had led to him professing love for her, she had accepted it. What else could she have done, a simple girl from a simple town who was hopelessly in love with one who had never once before given her a second glance?

She had, of course, known that it could not last forever. What was woven would be unwoven. That was the way of the ocean—to undo everything. 

(She thinks often of that strange night, rowing in the harbor with Demetrius and Lysander and Hermia, of the shadow-shapes that ran along under the water beside them like dolphins or sharks or, perhaps, inhumanly human forms.

Thinks often of how everything  _ changed _ after that, how all she has are dim and hazy memories of saltwater in her mouth, the sea weighing her dress down) 

***

She leaves the ship in Malta, and it’s raining as she crosses the dock, her skirts bundled in her hand to keep them from dragging on the muddied ground. The rain is warm, gentle on her skin, and she blinks it out of her eyes like tears. It’s the closest she’s come to crying since Demetrius told her it was over. 

She rents a room (she has her own money, rightfully gained) and sits on the bed with her hands in her lap, watching the rain lash against the windows. In the harbor, the shapes of ships loom, half-concealed by fog. She does not wonder if Demetrius has left already. There is no room in all the empty in her for thoughts like that. 

***

It is days before something pierces the cold veils that shroud her heart.

_ Hermia _ .

The name, and the face it conjures—the laughing smile she grew up with, on the streets of a town unkind to them, where the only comfort they found was in each other—these thoughts are like a ray of light seen through miles of water, reaching tender fingers down into the cold depths. 

They had parted after that strange night, Hermia to her corsair ship with Lysander in tow like a devoted puppy, Helena to Demetrius, Demetrius who had been in love with her then, who had promised that together they would rule the high seas—that no one could stand in their way.  

_ Go, _ she had told Hermia,  _ I’ll be fine. _

_ You can always come to me for anything you need _ , Hermia had said.

Helena considers this, turning a half-formed thought over in her mind like a pearl. She has felt adrift without an anchor for so long, cast loose on the waves with no land in sight, and this idea, this memory of Hermia—it is not land, not yet, but it is the first sight of a coastline after months at sea. 

_ I will go to Hermia, _ she thinks at last, then says aloud, “I will go to Hermia.”

For the first time in days, Helena feels a smile rising to her lips.

***

As children, they had run through city streets together, feet sure on the dusty cobblestones. Hermia had always danced on ahead, laughter ringing like a clear bell, and Helena had always been the one dashing to catch up, following behind. She had not minded—anywhere with Hermia was better than a palace without her. 

She remembers sleeping together, youthful limbs tangled innocently, hair mingling amid the sheets. Helena always slept best with Hermia’s warmth beside her, even when Hermia snored or kicked in her sleep. 

She sleeps best now when she remembers those nights. 

***

Hermia is sun-bronzed and smiling when Helena finds her months later, perched on the railing of her ship docked at a pier somewhere in Spain. Helena has bartered her way all across the Mediterranean, sometimes working for pay, sometimes dipping into her ever-dwindling savings.  

But now, standing on the splintered wood of a Spanish dock, gazing up at the familiar figure, she does not know what to say.

Before she can call out, Hermia glances down, her body stiffening when her eyes land on Helena. 

“Helena?” Hermia calls down. “Is that you?”

Helena raises a hand, gives a tentative wave. Hermia hops down off the railing and disappears into the ship, emerging down the gangway all but running towards Helena. She skids to a halt in front of her and looks her up and down, grinning. 

“Helena.” Hermia’s voice is warm, and after so long with the hollow, false love in Demetrius’ eyes, hearing someone say her name with such genuine affection makes Helena’s eyes sting with saltwater.  

She cannot speak past the sudden tightening of her throat, but words seem to be unnecessary. Hermia throws her arms around Helena, and her hair smells like warm spice and her grip is tight and suddenly, Helena cannot keep the tears back. She sobs into Hermia’s shoulder, great shuddering gasps, and Hermia holds her through it.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she whispers once Helena has calmed down. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too,” Helena manages to say, then hesitates. “Is it—can I…?”

“You’re not allowed to  _ not _ stay with me, now.” Hermia grabs her arm and starts towards her ship. “Come on. You’ve got to tell me everything that’s happened to you.”

***

They lie side-by-side in bed together, as though they were children again, and Hermia traces Helena’s cheek with one finger as Helena spills the entire story to her. At some point, her tears start up again, flowing silent down her cheeks as she speaks. It does not feel like grief, though—it feels like a flood washing through her, leaving her clean in a way entirely unlike her previous emptiness. Where that was a canyon, this is a garden, ready for planting. 

Afterwards, they lie in silence, foreheads pressed together, breathing even and matched. Hermia’s eyes are closed, a small, contented smile dancing on her lips. 

Helena closes her eyes as well and feels her heart opening into warmth, like a flower towards Hermia’s sun.


End file.
